


The King and the Soldier

by Phrenotobe_Archive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twin Striders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe_Archive/pseuds/Phrenotobe_Archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave’s attention to detail is as stuffy and awkward as ever, though his salute has come along by leaps and bounds. An enthusiastic thump to his chest over his heart with a fist, and then he’s down on one knee in front of you, showing the tender crescent of the back of his neck between collar and nape. He reaffirms his oath to you as the king, no longer as a brother.<br/>“Rise,” you murmur, aching to put your fingers to the seams and tan lines where weather has beaten him dark and beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King and the Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> For Manda, who is wonderful. Happy birthday.

It’s the anniversary of the coronation, something the two of you keep as a somber time, because of the sacrifices that it took to ascend to the throne. (You miss them every day.) It’s been a long five years easing into court structure, the by-laws and census-taking, plans for defense, plans of attack. Plans for festivals and holidays and saint’s days - your mother is a saint, and she would laugh at it. Your father would merely groan.

Dave has done well for himself. He had learned his trade well - another man among the folk-at-arms, growing calluses and brawny arms and a chest as wide as the heart that beats under it. It is a loving heart, and an open one, that trips into love and falls down every flight of stairs, cussing all the way. You wish he had your discernment. It makes him loved, nevertheless. He’s been on a campaign to defend the northern territories, and he’s blowing back in again, just in time, on the spring winds. You hate to say it, but you have missed him. 

You yourself are much more svelte. Light meals and frequent meetings mean you are slim, though not without lack of manhood - you would ably skin those who would dare to call you anything other than capable with the point of a sword, and you’d do it personally, to show your finesse. 

It makes for an odd meeting, after five years. Fresh air has been good to Dave, as has red meat and exercise. He’s got several inches on you, leaning heavily toward being close on a foot. You’re not quite sure what goes into the rations out in the territories, but you’re sure there’s some kind of substance that turns a man into a beefy crag. He’s grown in stature as well as mere height - his armor is scratched and lived in, his back is broad and his eyes are weary with lines that draw him much older than his years. His nose is broken, too, and he wears it well.

Dave’s attention to detail is as stuffy and awkward as ever, though his salute has come along by leaps and bounds. An enthusiastic thump to his chest over his heart with a fist, and then he’s down on one knee in front of you, showing the tender crescent of the back of his neck between collar and nape. He reaffirms his oath to you as the king, no longer as a brother. 

“Rise,” you murmur, aching to put your fingers to the seams and tan lines where weather has beaten him dark and beautiful.  
“My lord,” he says as he unfurls, a little loud, his indoor voice needing some buffing down.  
“Dirk,” you correct him. You might be proud, but you’re not so far gone.  
“My lord Dirk,” he repeats. You wrinkle your nose.  
He catches your eye and gives you a grin.  
“Dick,” you say.  
“My lord Dick!” Dave says grandly, flinging his arms wide, “Penile potentate. Prince of pricks. My monarch of the hella and most sovereign wang. I salute you.”  
Then he bows again.  
You think that this may be why he broke his nose. 

“Come on,” you murmur, putting a hand out to tap his jaw and bring it upwards. His stubble scrapes against your soft fingertips.  
“That would be rude,” he rejoins.  
You nod sharply.  
“Very well,” you say, and gently bop your knuckles against his cheekbone. Dave grins, and you tug him up to meet you. He stands up fully, and your nose brushes against his leather doublet. He takes the short step back to give you space.  
“Kiss your king,” you command him.  
He catches your hand, puts his mouth to it.  
You let out an irate sigh; people will be arriving soon.  
“Kiss me, you inglorious cockmunch,” you say.  
He’s again one more time on his knees, but he lifts up, propped only with his calves to balance, his great body now slightly shorter than the sum of you. You take his head benevolently in both hands, smoothing over his half-formed beard, a chinstrap with burgeoning potential, the thickness of his brows, the crow-feet by his eyes. You bend your head and lay a kiss to that busted, off-joint nose, right on the bridge where it angles a few degrees to the left and takes a sharp hook downwards. He lets out a breathless, voiceless wheeze, and puts his great and calloused hands to the dip of your back.  
“You’re going to the plains,” you say to his forehead as you kiss his hairline, “So I can keep an eye on you.”  
He laughs, shaking his frame - and by extension, you.  
Your thumbs stroke pacifyingly at his temples.  
“You’re the best knight I have,” you add.  
He chuffs self-consciously, his fingers adjusting their grip at your waist.  
“And you are my king.”  
He tilts up his chin, his lips slightly parted. Your mouth comes down against his.  
Dave’s whiskers are rough, but his mouth is soft. There’s an aftertaste of ale and the three-day ghost of white vegetables. You try not to consider other game in a ranger-knight’s diet.  
He digs his thumbs into your sides, gripping tight. 

“His Majesty and benevolence-”  
There’s no time.  
He lets go, his strong fingertips a sudden lack in your balance. You stumble backwards, tug down your tunic and run the back of your hand over your lips. You are aware your cheeks are going to be pink.  
“-Sovereign of the Prospitian heights,” the announcer calls, and Dave unsheathes his sword with a barely-audible whisper. He drops forward swiftly on to one knee; if he brought that wide chunk of metal to your neck in the next moment you’d barely know it.  
“Herald and oath-taker of the Once-Burned Wastes,” the announcer adds, rapidly running out of breath.

Dave gives you a trusting look, lifting the other end up to balance the sword flat in both palms.  
“-Keeper of the sacred-” the announcer starts again with another mouthful.  
You place a hand benevolently on the back of Dave’s head, your chin tilted upwards and your adam’s apple bobbing nervously over the cusp of your collar.  
“Deliver of the-”  
The announcer’s longwinded tale of blandishments is cut short.  
“Yes yes, my good man,” the object of these lordly titles says, “Enough is enough, now let me through.”  
He’s handsome, for all he’s impatient. Dark-haired, deep-chested and hairy.  
You suppose you have a type.  
“Good to see you!” he says enthusiastically, “Oh, who is this strapping young fellow?”  
Your hand lifts from Dave’s head. His blade is gone as fast as it was drawn, with just as little fanfare.  
“His Grace the ever-prince of Derse,” you say, and Dave dips neatly at the waist. You’d swear the courtiers hadn’t ever managed to wrangle that out of him before today.  
“Ah, yes,” the whatsit of somewhere says, offering a hand to shake. Dave grasps it, unsure of the protocol but always ready for a firm grip.  
“strong arm you have there,” the man compliments him warmly, before turning his attention to you.  
“Terribly sorry,” he says, offering his hand again. You handle his paw lightly, in case he causes your bones to be crushed, either by accident or design.  
“Can’t be dealing with all the hoo-ha, you know. Glad we’re all here and hale, good enough for me. I’ve heard a lot about you!”  
You nod, slowly.  
“And your name, sir?” you add.  
“Oh,” the man says, “Oh, yes, absolutely, well.”  
He pops a deep flourish, almost hitting his head on his own greaves. You admire his flexibility, but fear for his health.  
“King Crocker,” he says, “Consort-King, you know. Formerly of Harleybert. Very long story.”  
Your mouth twists into a smile, despite yourself.  
“Well I do have the time.”


End file.
